


Age Quod Agis

by Rhinocio



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Asexual Jak, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinocio/pseuds/Rhinocio
Summary: The night is cold as balls, there's a mechanic out to murder him, and the headline driver of the Kras City Death Races is about ready to throw himself into a street fight just to break up the introspective tension. If he's being honest, there's nothing Jak wants more than for his closest friend to convince him he's not as messed up as he thinks he is.





	Age Quod Agis

His ass was freezing. 

Jak shifted uncomfortably, rearranging his numbing legs and rubbing his gloved palms together to try and generate some heat through the leather. Kras City spit another icy breeze under his collar, and the air whipped so audibly around the building it sounded like it were laughing at him. He stared out at the white light of the town below. Multiple engines roared challenges at each other from adjacent streets, and Jak's toes curled in his boots, itching to answer the call. A couple of high speed drifts around tight corners in the Javelin X would help distract his nerves with a surge of adrenaline, but getting anywhere near his car meant getting near the garage, and...

Jak pushed his face into his hands and rubbed the skin until it tingled. He needed a distraction. Part of him wanted to take off into a back alley – paradoxically safer than the open streets, where well-equipped brawling vehicles could gun him into swiss cheese – and just walk until his brain stopped working. But he'd become a recognizable face around town thanks to GT Blitz and his floating camera, so going anywhere outside of the racetracks and buildings Rayn owned was asking for a blade in the side. There were more gangs than Jak cared to think about running this city, and he'd received enough death threats, even before the championship had begun, to convince him that traveling solo was a stupid idea.

Really, he needed Daxter. If he did get impulsive and take a suicide trip into the city, he'd have someone to watch his back. If he stayed where he was, he'd at least have something else to focus on, because his travel-size best friend was an attention whore if there ever was one. Daxter had a knack for pulling him out of his own thoughts with grandiose stories and hyperboloid complaints, and never wasted a quiet second to voice his opinion. In a moment like this, where brooding, cyclical thoughts sat heavy in Jak's brain, Daxter would know just the right way to shut him down and bring his attention back to what was _important_ – Daxter's needs. He could see why his friends became easily irate with the younger boy's constant need to talk, but to him it was an obnoxious, familiar blessing. It had helped him more times than he could count, and he wanted it now. 

Daxter had been more than busy when Jak had left their makeshift team headquarters and climbed the stairs to the roof, though. With a bottle of liquor in hand – pillaged from Krew's extensive cellar, and offered sequentially as a fraction of an apology from Rayn – and a tiny orange arm wrapped jovially around a tattooed and blushing neck, he had been mercilessly and loudly teasing Torn about his lady love. Jak had pretended not to see the mildly murderous but completely pleading look Torn had shot him as he departed; Torn had a grudging respect for Daxter after all the shit they'd done for Haven City (and the world, and him), so Jak had no fear that his small ottsel partner would become rodent fillet anytime soon. Let Dax have his drunk, harmless fun – rescuing the former Krimson Guard would only bring attention to his own less than stellar mood.

Jak had a terrible of habit of forgetting just how perceptive of him Daxter was, however. 

“There's the culprit! Hey, tough guy, where've you been hiding? I've been looking for your sorry butt for an hour! Somebody's gone and pissed Keira off, and I'd bet ten ways to Tuesday their name started with J and ended with A-K. What the heck did you _do?_ Don't give me some ‘not guilty’ bull, 'cause there ain't nothing worse than lies from a guy who wears his expressions on his sleeve.”

A familiar weight had dropped onto his shoulder before Jak had convinced his frozen neck to turn and face the voice. He sighed softly as Daxter adjusted to the curve of his jacket and the muscles underneath, used to a solid plate of Precursor metal to stand on. His long, heavy tail swayed across Jak's back. 

“Fess, Jakko. You owe your best friend some _deets._ You insult her car-constructin'? Side with her daddy and tell her she ain't fit to race? Dunno why she wants to anyway – that competition is a damn funhouse of homicide, complete with gatling lasers and dark eco ba-booms, in case regular sharp n' pointies aren't enough for ya. Not really the place for a lady.” Tiny fingers traced through the buzzed hair on his head, searching for long strands to braid. It was an old tick, a fidget that Daxter had adopted back when they had first been scraping an existence together in a corrupt Haven City. Though Jak had cropped it all off in a fit of emotion shortly after the loss of his father and Daxter had no reason to seek the motion now that they were safe from being murdered (or had been, until this whole Kras City race thing had happened), the habit had persisted. Jak closed his eyes and let it and his friend's ranting soothe him. In a way, it felt like those past days in Haven, when he'd wake up shivering before the sunrise and Daxter would just _be_ there. He let the simplicity of the moment sink onto him like a blanket, familiar and stable. It was just him and Dax and there was nothing else he had to think about.

“Yo! Y'ain't listenin' to a dang thing I'm sayin', are ya? Don't tell me yer embarrassed about somethin'?” 

Jak did his best to keep his breath even and muscles relaxed. He kept his eyes glued to the inside of his eyelids. Daxter read him like a book anyway, and hissed delightedly.

“You copped a feel, didn't'cha?” Daxter must have seen the rolling motion underneath Jak's eyelids, because he stood erect on the broad shoulder of the older man and cocked his hip. “Fine, fine, you're too good for that or whatever. Y'fudged somethin' up bad though, brother, 'cause that chick ain't pleased. She about chewed the heads off everybody downstairs for even lookin' at her,” he frowned, “and she took my drink.”

The ottsel's tail rubbed against his shoulder blade rhythmically, and Jak could feel Daxter's hmm-ing and haa-ing reverberating through his collarbone. He shifted in his seat, and the weight of his friend balanced flawlessly with him. Horns honked far below them, followed by a screech of tires and a far off explosion.

“You totally came before her, didn't you?” Daxter squinted. The man beneath him started. “Oh _man,_ didn't anyone give you the whole 'ladies first' shpeal? No, wait, that's not it – do _not_ tell me you didn't get anywhere before you gave up the goods, Jak. I didn't raise you to be all big and strong just so you could let go that easy!” 

_“Dax!”_ Jak spluttered, mortified. 

_“Whaaaaaaat?_ The girl's got every right to be pissed if you're pullin' crap like that! You'd have to be deaf, and blind, and livin' under a rock in the deepest, dankest, nastiest hole in a metalpede nest not to get the gist of the innuendos she's been throwin' at'cha! I get that she likes you and junk, pal, but she's some crazy level of uncensored. _'We'll talk about 'nice' later, Jak,'”_ the ottsel made a face and flicked his wrist pointedly, “That is way more than I need to hear, thank you! Best friend is in the room, baby, can we tone down the pickup lines? PG, puh-leeze.”

“We are not talking about this,” Jak sighed, covering his face with a hand.

“We are _so_ talking about this, because _one,_ I've had enough to drink that I don't care how awkward this junk gets and _two,_ it'd be asking for the sweet release of death if I went downstairs and faced that wrench-wielding Amazon _you_ left high and dry. Lay it on me, Jakky,” Daxter jumped down into his friend's lap and crossed his arms, “and let the Daxternator tell you the proper way to please a wo-”

“We didn't _do_ anything, Dax.” Warm fingers firmly gripped the ottsel's muzzle, clamping his mouth closed. An unimpressed snort ticked his hand beneath the contact, and Daxter's tiny paws batted at his arm as he squirmed out of the hold. He shuffled himself backwards and took a casual seat on Jak's bent knees.

“Well there's your problem,” Daxter scoffed, shaking his head. “Having trouble gettin' the alone time? Precursors know Keira'd probably be happy enough cornerin' ya in the garage or some shit, though I've been keepin' a sharp-shootin' eye to make sure that don't happen. No offence, bud, but I'd like to keep that scent as far away from my shotgun seat as possible, ya feel me?” 

Jak cringed visibly, nose scrunching up on one side; Daxter mirrored the motion, and his long ears flapped as his head swayed viciously side to side once more, as if trying to clear the imagery from his mind. The ottsel sighed loudly.

“Look, all I'm sayin' is, if you need a brother to clear a room so you and Big K can get jiggy with somethin', I got yer back.”

The option for a thanks dripping in sarcasm tried itself on Jak's tongue, but the word flipped and garbled itself until it was no more than a puff of air past his lips. His head fell back against the stone wall, and another cold breeze whipped by the corner to take the fragments of their conversations into the night. Daxter's fur was blow flat on one side, until the pale white-pink of his skin under the fluff showed in spots, and he shuddered; Jak propped an arm on the leg that wasn't holding his partner's weight to serve as a windblock.

Another scream of tires and the unmistakable chime of shattering glass burst from a few blocks away, and Jak could feel the ottsel's body shifting as he turned his fidgeting self towards the sound, then surveyed behind himself, then resumed watching Jak's face. Daxter never was one for sitting still, and though the momentary ceasefire of his motormouth might have surprised others, Jak knew the physical commentary was certainly still going full-tilt. The small mammal's paws were drumming a beat against the fabric of Jak's pants, and his muscular tail kept lifting, dropping, and swishing behind him. His right foot was periodically bouncing. Though he'd never stooped so low as to let his nose twitch, Daxter's protruding front teeth – all the more appropriately-fitting in this rodent body – chewed at his bottom lip, just as they had when he was human. Jak felt himself relax into the rhythm being gently beat into his skin, contented and relieved that the Precursors had sent him what he'd been needing. Daxter, naturally, wasn't content with simply being a delivery boy.

“Y'worried?” he said suddenly, though his voice had gone soft. Jak opened his eyes and took in the neutral expression curiously. “That somethin's gonna go weird with Ol' Darkie?” 

Automatically his body stiffened, but Jak forced a breath and a scoff. The notion had, admittedly, made its way through his brain before, once especially when a necking session with Keira had gone sour – hands on his waist had been too much touch for comfort, and the electric shock that had run up his spine and stood his hair on end prickled with dark eco. He had considered his more reprobate alter-ego's flair for the animalistic, too; if there was even the most vague possibility intimate acts might accidentally flip the switch, Jak would sooner be careful than contrite.

Below and behind where they sat perched, muffled by at least two floors, loud thunks and voices disrupted the whistling wind, and the unmistakable nasally tone of their Sandover companion rose above the rest. The words spoken were unclear, but accusatory. Jak leaned farther into the shadows and stared up at the black sky to offer his mind a physical solace from the claustrophobic anxiety welling up in him. Daxter hummed.

“You don' wanna,” he said, and the phrase was in no way questioning.

Jak shrugged.

“Tell me somethin',” the ottsel continued, hopping onto the concrete and turning his back, arms akimbo. His posture both gave Jak visual privacy and suggested Daxter would guard the stairs with his excellent hearing for his partner's getaway should someone deem to check the rooftop. “Am I wrong thinkin' you and the blue-haired babe had a thing for each other back in yakkow country? 'Cause I'm gonna be one cheesed-off chinchilla if she's been blowin' me off as a prank all this time.”

Daxter glanced over his shoulder just long enough to lock eyes, then nodded at the acceptable response Jak's stern stare had given him.

“A'right, fair enough. So when'd you figure on tellin' her that bird'a paradise has flown the coop?” He shifted, hip jutting to one side, and glanced up at the stars. The inquisitorial tone died off once again. “'Cause you left that one back in the lurker pits, Jakko.”

He wasn't wrong. Jak couldn't argue that – though he'd been aching to see Kiera during his time in Haven's prison (or anyone from home, really, but for a short time he believed perhaps things could be simply kissed better), his enthusiasm for their reunion had gone the way of the wasteland sands the moment she'd hesitated. The rumours of strangers were stronger than her faith in him, and “You've changed,” was too accusatory a statement when all he'd wanted was, “You survived.”

Of course Daxter had noticed. But Jak had wanted to try, despite the immediate disconnect. It was Keira, for Precursors' sake, whom he'd spent years of his young life batting eyes at and trying to impress. Keira, who very clearly felt attraction to him, and had given up on subtleties on the belief that somehow he, a man who had until recently expressed himself entirely with body language, was missing his cue. Keira, the only woman (save perhaps Tess) he'd even consider letting into his personal bubble, whom he could attempt to lust and swoon over and win at the end of his long days of world-saving, because that's what men were supposed to do, and skipping the fanfare for a primal romp in a back room of the Naughty Ottsel was absolutely beneath his morals. She was a chance, a challenge.

Jak laid his forehead against his arms, and the cold leather of his coat soothed the headache creeping across his brow. Daxter gave his leg an understanding pat.

"Brave enough to save the world, but not ta ditch the dame. Yer somethin'." A groan from under folded limbs was the initial response to Daxter's jab, but when the ottsel propped his own chin on Jak's knees the man glanced up, the hesitant shifting of his eyes from his friend's to the ground spoke volumes. Daxter searched his expression, inquiring with his own. 

The wind howled on, making noise in the vacuum of their silence.

Jak looked away first, feeling childish and ashamed. Daxter scaled his arm and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before settling on his usual perch once more.

"So say I threw Ashelin at'cha. She's got it all and a bag o' bullets, right? Sass, status, questionable - but delectable - taste in armour. Y'macked on her once."

Jak shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. Daxter whistled.

"Tess, even? Not that'm sharin', but- really? Tits like that and yer indifferent? Jak, buddy, more fer me, no complaints. I'm havin' a heck of a time wrappin' my head around this, though. An' my head ain't the size it used to be. Don't laugh!" the ottsel gave his partner a swat upside the ear as Jak's mouth quirked. "Log Noggin' can shove it. He's got a fat skull fulla more hot air than those green eco vents'a his."

Thoughtful quiet overcame the two. Daxter leant between his sprawled legs to pick at loose threads on Jak's jacket. Nervousness coiled in the man's stomach, spiked with the desperate need to explain himself, but before he could organize a sentence on his tongue, his companion was a paragraph in.

“So, uh, you shootin' for the other team, then? Sniper-scoping the young and the breastless?” Something suspiciously like hope had bled into his tone, though the infliction was soon buried in laughter as Daxter lost himself in the thrill of creating euphemisms. “Tryin' yer skills as a booty bandit? Turncoatin' the Underground to be back alley busboy? Tradin' tongues with the lower timbres? Sharin' zoomers with the competition? Gonna join the Freedom League as a rear guard?”

The ottsel gave a hoot, rising to his feet to sprawl his arms over Jak's head as if it were a bar counter, grabbing hold of one undersized goggle barrel like a cup. The soft fur of his belly tickled Jak's cheek as he laughed, “That'd explain the duds! Skiddin' the Kras corners is a good excuse for the leather, but you must'a special ordered the straps on this suit, buddy. Figured you were borrowin' chaps from Jinx or somethin', 'cause nobody in Sandland would stitch ass-flatterin' pants like that without some serious bribin', but the jig is up, Jak's booty-callin'!”

The man chuckled along good-naturedly, shaking his head. Daxter rambled something about Razer and swooned against Jak's hair like a damsel, sticking one long paw into the air, and then rolled over again to push his bottom towards the sky, tail flapping like a flag. He let it swing in front of his face a few times before the racer tugged the offending appendange – and subsequently Daxter – off his perch and into his lap. His companion, body contorted and limbs everywhere, rested a free arm on Jak's hand, still cackling.

“That's not it, Dax,” he said softly, and with a final composing hum, the ottsel looked up at him, as relaxed and quiet as he'd ever been. 

“Dudes are top threats anyway, man. 'Cept Tess, last time she got her hand on your Vulcan. But y'know what I mean.” Daxter puffed his lean chest out and squared one arm, his ears falling rigid along his skull. His jaw jutted forward as he continued in a deep mockery, “Uggha uggha, testosterone n’ muscles, I’m aggressive to everyone an’ show off how cool I am by tryin’ to skin small talkin’ mammals. Can’t see that bein’ a good match fer you, meathead.”

Jak's thumb ran the short length of the back of the animal's neck twice, petting the thick fur that stood up sharply when he was upset. There was no surprise that Daxter had picked up on his own tendency to bristle at close contact from men and women alike – no sensation felt safe after two years in prison, nor had anyone been considerate enough of his reluctance to worm their way into his comfort zone and encourage touch, however friendly. Daxter leant back into the motion, a pleased smile on his face.

“So what up, Jak? Don't dig no one?”

“Yeah,” was the whispered response as Jak's voice caught, too tired to shrug, “Pretty much.”

Daxter stared. The battle sounds from the streets below fell silent, as if all the vehicles in motion had simultaneously decided to park where they were. Jak stilled, the stars froze in their planetary rotation, and somewhere a shining Precursor phantom and blind old woman petting a sleeping monkaw nodded sagely. Still, as was right, everything came back to the boy turned ottsel.

“Eh. Figures. Everybody wants the hero, but the hero ain't puttin' out. Gotta balance the worldwide hocus-pocus somehow, right?” He waved a small paw with an air of disinterest, but the clawed fingers that flopped back against Jak's skin rubbed reassuringly. “More for me.”

Given Daxter's endless adaptability, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he could brush off such an announcement. They had spent countless years together (more so, with the time travel factored in), and while his dramatics were never lost on simple statements, the heavy confessionals Jak had once or twice shared during the smothering dark of typhoons around their little island home had only ever been met with calm, small forehead-tapping signals for ‘our secret’. Jak mulled quietly on the memory and considered signing out more of an explanation, offering the movement of his hands where words were failing him, but nothing in the fading mental bank of their once-common silent code seemed to fit all he wanted (and didn't want) to say.

Daxter, of course, didn't need the words in any format.

“Buddy, look,” he said, speaking to the city lights to give Jak’s shame cover, “Everybody is somethin’ they don't wanna be. Doubt Siggy was hot for an eyepatch. Bet’cha Keira’d pack a dick if it meant she could race. Daddy Sandbags? He was a bit of a nut, man, full confession on that one, yer pops had a few screws loose, but I think he’d’ve kept lordin’ us around until our legs fell off an’ the kingdom was plated in Precursor gold if he had a say in how things went.” The emotional wound buried in Jak’s heart pinched sharply, and he dug a chewed thumbnail into his palm to shut it up. Anyone else having brought up Damas would have ended the conversation for him immediately, but as with everything, Daxter was the exception to the rule. His ottsel friend lay sprawled across his legs with a practiced sort of relaxation that matched Jak’s own methods of pretending, adding roughly, “Tessy probably didn't count on bein’ made a rodent, either. Nobody asked her.”

There were very few times Daxter ever wanted pity, and most he had grown out of a lifetime and several dismissive adult figures ago; the thickness of his voice was no invitation, nor was the way his tail curled around his stomach and hinted it wasn't only Tess he was referencing. The racer kept his hands to himself.

“Be whatever the hell you are, Jak. S’nobody’s damn business.”

The rev of multiple engines in the distance echoed up towards them. A single streaking light above cut the black of the sky as a star gave up its ghost. The soft puff of air that left Jak’s lungs as he slouched back against the stone wall took a surprising weight with it, and a grateful warmth filled his chest that cut Kras’ wind at least by at least half.

He shifted and straightened his legs, and they stood in tandem, with no more than a huff of displeasure at the effort from Daxter. The ottsel scaled his clothes and made himself comfortable on his shoulder, clawed fingers brushing the side of his ear in an intimate but not unfamiliar gesture, and broke the silence with a flippant nod towards the stairs.

“Fer the record I don't give a whumpbee’s spiky ass who y’do or don't bring t’bed as long as yours truly gets a heads up on when his spot is occupado, but if you're done with the topic fer tonight I'm gonna highly suggest we exit stage right. Your number one dumpee is on the way up.” Sensing the anxiety or perhaps too used to Jak’s avoidance tendencies, and knowing how intricate a stealth mission fishing the Javelin X out of the garage would be, the ottsel jabbed a thumb and added, “Our choice of three hotrods over that side of the buildin’. Some D class racer bozos have been parked there an’ bickerin’ fer half an hour.”

Jak didn’t need clarification or a second telling. He had certainly faced bigger demons in his twenty-whatever years (time travel really confused everything), but this wasn’t a battle he could win with his fists, and words had never been his strong suit. There was something uniquely intimidating about walking into a wave of demands and questions from a crying woman he cared about and responding with little more than, “No.”

Only... Damas would say his cowardice wasn’t acceptable for a Wastelander or his son. That thought alone convinced Jak he’d have to speak to her.

Just not yet.

By the time Keira was pacing the rooftop and calling his name, he and his hammering heart were halfway down the drainpipe. Scant moments (and a few fleeing, greasy competitors later) he and Daxter were buckling into a dark blue Street Grinder with far fewer modifications than their own rides but an engine and wheels nonetheless. The seats were worn down from bodies quite a bit larger than his own, but that didn’t dampen the effect nor delight when Daxter slapped his goggles onto his furry face, cranked the radio, and spun a dial that build a warmth under him and muffled the icy city breeze into a whisper.

“Ooooh,” Daxter cackled, “Butt warmers!”


End file.
